


ardent for some desperate glory

by curtaincall



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - World War I, F/F, F/M, Gen, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-07
Updated: 2013-12-10
Packaged: 2017-12-28 18:40:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/995216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curtaincall/pseuds/curtaincall
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>World War I-era AU. As tensions in Europe draw to a head, Buffy Summers must fight her own battles in Sunnydale, where at least she knows who the enemy is. Meanwhile, young vampire Spike, already renowned for killing one Slayer, is making his own way to California to fight an old enemy and win back a lost love. Predictably, the two fighters clash--but as a force arises that threatens everything they both hold dear, alliances and morality grow murkier, and hearts go to war with minds.</p><p>Eventual Spuffy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

Sunnydale, California, 1910

The temple was lit only by candlelight, but the girl’s red hair caught the flickering flames as she approached the altar, giving her the appearance of a wayward halo. Her companion stopped and let go of her hand to take hold of a coppery strand and examine it. Feeling the tug on her hair, Willow turned and smiled.

“You look magical,” Tara said, looking down at her feet and returning her hand to her side. “Like you belong here.”

“You’re the one who knows what you’re doing. I haven’t got the slightest clue what this place truly is, or even what you--what we--truly are.”

“Witches,” Tara whispered in her ear. “That’s the word, and you know it well. Witches.”  
Willow laughed. “Witches. We’d be outcasts if they knew.”

“We’d be outcasts if they knew...other things, too.” Tara raised her shy eyes to Willow’s. “Being daughters of Sappho is every bit as dangerous as being daughters of Gaia. We’re deviants.”

“Deviant witches. The bane of polite society.” Willow took Tara’s hand in hers again and proceeded towards the altar. “And yet we’re about to do society a great service.”

“Are you certain you’re strong enough?” Tara asked anxiously. “I haven’t pushed you too far, too quickly?”

“You’ve pushed me in no way I cannot handle. Now come. Midnight is nearly upon us.”

The two girls knelt in front of the altar and raised their joined hands in supplication. “Mother Earth, goddess, the augurs have shown a great evil approaching, and we your daughters beseech you to aid in its defeat. Four vampires, children of darkness, enemies of good, come to tear this place asunder, to sin against you and against order. We seek to defeat them, to protect the innocent from their cruel deeds. For this, we beg your help: grant that these four may be weakened, brought low by your great power.”

A fire sprung up on the altar, and Willow and Tara stepped back instinctively, exchanging wondering glances. “We bring you offerings,” they continued, “to show our gratitude.” Tara reached into her apron pocket and pulled out a flask of wine. With a nod from Willow, she began to sprinkle it over the flames, and together the girls chanted: “Mater, audi nos. Oramus: dona nobis praesidium. Serva nos, serva nos, ser--”

Their prayer was never finished. Four figures stood, silhouetted in the temple doorway; four vampires descended upon them.  
“I know who you are,” Tara whispered, struggling against her captor’s arms. “Angelus.”

He smiled. “That’s right. It seems my reputation has spread even to this far corner of the world.”

“And me?” called another vampire, grabbing the wine from Tara’s hands and taking a swig. “You’ve heard of me?”

“W-w-william the Bloody,” Tara murmured. 

“Spike!” He thrust the wine flask away from him petulantly, and it clattered to the floor, staining the stones red. “I’m Spike.”

“Spike, darling,” his lover hissed, wrapping her arms around him, “you mustn’t be so loud.”

“Quite right,” said Spike, shaking his hair back and leaning into her. “I’ve forgotten my manners. This, girls, is Drusilla. And we’re going to eat you.”

“Don’t you know what we are?” Willow asked desperately. “We can fight you!”

“You’re witches,” the woman who held her laughed. “Foolish young witches. And so tender.”

“Darla,” Angelus snapped, “don’t encourage them. It’s time we ate.”

“It’s time you were dust!” Willow cried, and spread her arms, freeing herself and knocking Darla unconscious in a burst of magical force, but doubling over from the expense of energy. 

“All right,” sneered Angelus, and his face warped into its true form. “Now I’m angry.”

He sunk his teeth in Tara’s neck, and Willow let out a scream. “You can’t!”

Angelus lifted his bloody face. “I just did.” He let Tara fall, limp, to the ground.

Willow ran to her. “Tara! Tara, love, can you hear me?”

“Here,” Tara whispered, and placed her hand in Willow’s.

Now power surged through her, and, turning away from her lover’s body, she faced the vampires.

“Bloody hell,” Spike muttered and fled with Drusilla.

Angelus only laughed. “Does it hurt, little girl?”

“You wouldn’t know,” Willow said, her voice deep, her eyes dark. “You can’t feel pain. Not like I do.”

“Why don’t you kill me, then? Find out just how strong you are?”

“No,” Willow breathed. “You need to live. Live in misery.” She spread her arms to the sky and called out, almost in song: “Noce hunc, deos, noce hunc: redde animum!”

And as she fell to the ground, exhausted, a new man struggled to his feet.

An Angel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Latin translations:  
> "Mother, hear us. We pray: give us protection. Save us, save us, save us!"  
> "Harm this man, gods, harm him! Return his soul!"


	2. Much Ado about Buffy

Switzerland  
July 1914

The lesson was on French verbs, but Buffy Summers was far more interested in watching the automobile driving through the school’s iron gates. Students were only allowed visitors on Sundays, and staff generally preferred to seek socialization off-campus, so the question of just who might be in that motorcar was quite intriguing. Certainly, more intriguing than the conjugation of avoir.  
Perhaps the mysterious visitor was a wealthy patron of the school: a young man, possibly handsome, from a noble family, sent to search among the young ladies for a bride fit for his ancestral home…or a modiste from Paris, invited especially by the headmistress to outfit her favorite pupils as a reward for good behavior...or an artist, commissioned to paint the portraits of some of the wealthier girls…  
“Miss Summers?”  
Buffy was jolted back to the reality of French class.  
“Miss Summers, if it’s not too much trouble, could you conjugate for your fellow-students the imperfect subjunctive of vouloir?”  
“Erm…” Buffy tapped her pencil on her desk, stalling for time. “Vol…” Tap, tap, tap. But the noise was not her pencil, but a knock on the door. Madame Moran sighed, cast a reproachful you’re-not-getting-off-that-easy glance at Buffy, and stepped outside to speak with the messenger.  
She returned with a face much graver than before. “Girls, class is canceled for the remainder of the day. You are to return to your bedrooms and begin packing your things. More information will be provided to you as we deem it necessary.”  
The other students rose in a flutter of skirts and petticoats, but Buffy stayed frozen in her seat. For all that she had been wishing for an escape from Gallic grammar, this strange development was too troubling for her to enjoy. Not after what she’d seen the past few months.  
It had begun with a dream--a series of dreams, in which she ran, bobbing and weaving through crowds and around obstacles, through deserts and over hills, ran in fear of some unidentifiable force chasing her. She would wake up each morning sweating and panting, with the nagging feeling that whatever it was that she’d been running from was still behind her, and one day when she forgot to turn her back--that would be that.  
But one night, the dream changed. One night, instead of running, she turned around. Better to see what it was she was fleeing, she reasoned. Better to know her fear.  
What she saw was unimaginably terrifying. A man, ordinary in every way save one: the contours of his face were warped, distorted into something inhuman. His eyes glowed an unearthly yellow, and when he opened his mouth to smile, his teeth were fangs.  
It was extremely unattractive.  
Buffy was frozen in place, petrified; she strained her legs to move, but they remained still as the creature came closer and closer. He reached her, at last, and she tensed herself for what would come. She felt a cold hand on her flushed cheek, and he softly tilted her head to the side in an almost lover-like gesture, exposing her neck. She knew what would come next. She’d heard stories about this as a child, legends, tales she’d never dreamed could possibly be true.  
This was a vampire, and he was going to bite her.  
The realization gave her a burst of unexpected strength, and she thrust her foot up and into it with more force than she thought she had. And, instead of running away, for some reason, she ran towards it, only thinking of how to get another kick in before he attacked again. He lunged at her, and she ducked the blow and responded one of her own, a swift punch that exposed his torso. As he faltered, she reached up to her waist and pressed down on her corset, snapping off a piece of the wooden boning. And she drove the improvised stake through the vampire’s heart.  
She had woken that morning tired but strangely exhilarated, as though she’d done something incredible. She was almost excited to go to sleep that night, to fight the demon again. And she did--each night, now, instead of running, she would hold her ground and kill the monster, finding new ways each time to stake its heart, marvelling at her own speed and strength. But they were only dreams. Until, one evening, they weren’t.  
She had been walking alone through the school’s gardens, composing in her head a letter to her mother that would make her sound healthy and happy, when she heard a rustling in the bushes and turned to look. The intruder was a girl about her age, but not one she’d seen before, and a strange smile played around the corners of her face.  
“Hello?” Buffy said cautiously.  
“Hello, Slayer,” the girl said, and before Buffy’s eyes her face transformed into a vampire’s.  
Buffy was astounded, but by now the routine of staking had been drilled into her memory, and her muscles reacted on their own as her eyes scanned the ground for a piece of wood, finally alighting on a stray stick, thinner than the ones from her dreams.  
Well, it would have to do. As the other girl moved for her neck, Buffy threw up one hand, knocking her chin aside, and with her other hand aimed for the heart. The vampire disappeared in a cloud of dust.  
There had been other demons, since that day--vampires, mostly, but other creatures as well. Many of them called her “Slayer,” like the first girl, but others merely shouted harsh nothings. Each of them was easy enough to dispatch; some were strong, yes, but Buffy was growing stronger.  
That didn’t mean she had to like it. And now, today, the mysterious visitor filled her with a dread that far overpowered her joy at escaping French class, because every time she saw something suspicious, it meant she had to kill it. She was, apparently, the Slayer.  
So she remained at her desk long enough to offer up a prayer to the universe that this disturbance had nothing to do with creatures from hell, then collected her things and proceeded to her room, making certain she had hold of a pencil for emergencies.  
The girls’ matron was standing in the hallway, monitoring her flustered students as they ran back and forth, gathering their things. Buffy approached her quietly.  
“Yes, Miss Summers?”  
“What’s happening?”  
“I really oughtn’t to tell you.”  
“Please?” Buffy opened her eyes unusually wide, and the matron sighed.  
“Austria-Hungary has declared war on Serbia.”  
That was somewhat underwhelming, Buffy reflected. “At the risk of sounding flippant, ma’am, who cares?”  
“This is no laughing matter, young lady. It is very likely that soon Germany will enter the conflict, and Russia, France, and Britain may not be far behind.”  
Buffy frowned. “And so Switzerland is no longer safe?”  
The matron nodded. “Many of our students will have families on one side of the conflict or another. The headmistress feels it is best for us all to be home at this difficult time. We will have passage arranged for you all by tomorrow morning.”  
***  
Calais, France  
August 1914

Buffy heaved her suitcase over the threshold of her stateroom, grateful for how her strength had recently increased. She surveyed the cabin--second-class, but spacious enough, and luckily single-berth. It would certainly do as her home for the next week.  
It was early yet, though, and the ship wasn’t set to depart until noon, so rather than following her first impulse and collapsing on the bed, Buffy pocketed the room key and, quickly checking her appearance in the mirror, set out to explore. Recent experiences had made her determined to know every corner of the space she inhabited--one never knew when one would need to run and hide. Nevertheless, she was hopeful; there had been no supernatural disturbances on her train journey from Switzerland, and she could scarcely imagine seafaring vampires. Perhaps she had left those troubles behind.  
Stepping out of her stateroom, she wandered about the second-class deck, searching for a friendly face--another girl her own age, or a kindhearted mother hen, or a handsome young man to squire her about during the voyage. But all the other passengers were either locked securely in their rooms, or clinging together in groups to which she did not belong, and Buffy let out a sigh of loneliness. She had been popular at school; leaving for America did not bode well for her continued social success, if she remembered anything from the last time she’d been home.  
“Bother this war,” she muttered under her breath, wondering not for the first time why the death of some archduke meant that she had to leave her life behind.  
“I beg your pardon?” Buffy whirled around to see the owner of the voice--it was not particularly odd to hear English spoken, but the majority of those around her were muttering in French or in strong American accents, and these tones were unmistakably British.  
The man who had spoken was staring at her quizzically over the rims of his glasses, and the wrinkles on his face seemed more from frowning than from age; he was not quite old enough to be her father.  
“I beg your pardon,” he said again, “but are you Miss Buffy Summers?”  
“I am,” Buffy said cautiously. “Are you with the ship? I assure you that I’ve paid my passage in full.”  
“I have no doubt of it,” the man said courteously, “and I am not employed by the ship in any capacity, no. I am here on behalf of--is there somewhere private we can talk?”  
Buffy raised her eyebrows skeptically. A strange man asking her to go somewhere with him? This was the sort of thing she’d been amply warned about at school. But warnings of that kind were seeming increasingly trivial now, and something avuncular in this man’s eyes made the idea of sordid designs laughable.  
“Yes,” she said, and led him to her stateroom, leaving the door open just enough to enable easy escape if her instincts should turn out to be wrong. “So,” she said, sitting decorously on the bed while he stood, hands folded, against the wall: “How do you know who I am, if you’re not with the ship?”  
The man ignored her question. “My name,” he said instead, “is Rupert Giles, and I have been sent to find you in order to act as your Watcher.”  
“My what?”  
“Erm...your guide, mentor, teacher. I will be in charge of your training and development.”  
“Are you a sort of private tutor? Did my mother send for you? I assure you, I have had the best education possible, and although the results are perhaps not entirely distinguished, I do not lack for intelligence.”  
“No, I am certain of that, no, I have not been sent by your mother. You misunderstand. I am to teach you about being the Slayer.”  
Buffy blinked. “You know about…”  
“Vampires? Yes. I am something of an expert on the subject, in fact.”  
“Then perhaps you can tell me why they’ve been following me around like flies to honey, lately?”  
“As I said, you are the Slayer. You alone have the power to stand against the forces of darkness. I am here to help you in that duty.”  
“I alone can fight the forces of darkness?” Buffy asked. “Do I have to?”


	3. Prey and Prejudice

New York City  
August 1914

William Pratt, alias William the Bloody, alias Spike, erstwhile poet, vampire, and proud killer of a bona fide Slayer, had been hunched over in an alleyway vomiting on and off for the past hour, and was beginning to get frustrated.  
“I thought we were supposed to be all strong and superhuman and what-have-you,” he whined. “And yet here I am with a bloody hangover!”  
Drusilla patted him on the head. “There, there, my boy. You were silly last night. Had a bit too much. You’ll be good as new in a bit, and then--” she nipped him on the ear--”we can play. You’ll like that, won’t you?”  
Spike spat and wiped his mouth with his sleeve, standing up in order to put his arms around Drusilla. “Of course I will, love, it’s just--”  
“What?”  
“Well, I’m a bit bored of New York, that’s all. Think it’s about time you and I were moving on.”  
“Where shall we go, my William?” Drusilla asked, her voice sing-song. “Shall we find a little farm, with cows and pigs and a lovely big chicken, and a fat little farmer and his fat little wife and all their fat little children? They’d make such a lovely snack, all those fat little children. Can we go? Can we go to the farm?”  
“We can, Dru, of course we can, but after that...I’ve got a hankering for something a bit more exciting.”  
“What do you mean?”  
“Where’s all the fun in killing a bunch of helpless kiddies? Chomp, suck, fast and easy. I’m spoiling for something big here. Something strong.”  
“It’s lovely fun,” Drusilla said plaintively. “We can tie them up and eat them bit by bit. I’ve got such a lot of toys, Spike, and they don’t hurt you and they don’t hurt me and so we can use them, but they won’t be pleasant at all for all the fat little humans. Just think of how we could make them look.”  
“Yes, torturing the innocent, barrel of laughs, all right, but love, there’s all sorts of things brewing right now. This war, I’ve heard all Europe’s going to have a hand in it. Can you imagine? All that chaos and fighting, and we’d be kings of the battlefield. Well, king and queen.”  
“But that’s so boring,” Drusilla whined. “Killing and eating without any style at all. No better than humans. I want to make it last. It’s an art. A beautiful, twisted art. You never understand that.”  
“I understand perfectly well! And I’m all for art, but, well, sometimes I want a victim who fights back a little, don’t you?”  
“You don’t understand. Angelus understood, he did. All those pretty little crosses. All that lovely torture.”  
“Well, bloody Angelus isn’t here right now, is he? He went off and left you, because he didn’t love you like I do. You know I love you, Dru, you cracked bitch, and we can go kill all the chickens in New York if it’ll make you happy.”  
“Angelus left,” Drusilla said absentmindedly.  
“Yes.”  
“He went far away.”  
“Yes, we established that.”  
“Went to maim some pretty girls, did he?”  
“Doubtless.”  
“I’m going to go find him. Him and Darla. And we can have a lovely time just like we used to. We can be a family again.”  
“Well, all right, love, if that’s what you want, we’ll go find them.”  
“No, you’re not coming,” Drusilla said, and, kissing him on the forehead, slunk off.  
“I’m not--what the hell do you mean, I’m not coming?”  
But she didn’t look back.  
Spike shook his head. “Well, fuck.”

***  
So there he was, two hours later, attempting to give his hangover and heartbreak the hair-of-the-dog treatment by dousing himself in whiskey in some unremarkable tavern.  
The clientele was equally unremarkable--lonely unemployed day-drinkers who shared the vampire’s aversion to sunlight. Mostly, they sat, like Spike, alone, staring into their cups, but a notable exception kept battering his ears--two young women. One, clearly a whore, and not an expensive one, either, was crying desperately on the shoulder of the other, dressed in clothing far too sumptuous for the setting. It was that which caught Spike’s eye--that, and the glint in the well-dressed woman’s eyes that reminded him of some of the worst people he’d ever known.  
So, naturally, he came closer.  
“I thought he loved me for more than my cunt,” the whore was sobbing. “He gave me the prettiest rings, he said that he’d take me away from this sordid life and marry me.”  
“And then what happened?”  
“He left. He said he’d met someone else. A girl who was--who was respectable. I may not be respectable, but I love him!”  
“That’s horrible. Horrible! Don’t you hate him for what he did to you!”  
“I hate him, yes, so much, but I also love him! You know how that feels?”  
“I do, yes. Don’t you wish something horrible would happen to him?”  
“I--I don’t know.”  
“I think you do.”  
“Well, I--”  
“Wouldn’t it just be poetically satisfying to see his entrails ripped from his stomach? Or his eyes gouged out and fed to him in a stew? Or his testicles infected with some disease that will cause every woman he loves to recoil from him? Or…”  
“It might,” the whore admitted.  
“Don’t you wish he’d be submerged in a vat of boiling oil, screaming in pain and unremitting anguish for eternity?”  
“Well, I don’t know about that.”  
“Oh, come now.”  
“I do wish--”  
“Yes?”  
“I wish I hadn’t been such a fool!”  
“Oh, you’re hopeless! What am I supposed to do with that?” snorted the well-dressed woman, and, shaking the crying whore’s head off her shoulder, stood to leave.  
Spike moved quickly to the doorway to block her.  
“Excuse me?” she said, frowning. “Do you mind letting me by?”  
“A bit, yes. If I’ve got any perception at all, I know what you are.”  
“And that is?”  
“A vengeance demon.”  
“You’re not wrong,” the woman admitted grudgingly. “I admit I’m not the most subtle of workers, but I get the job done. Why’re you in the market for vengeance?”  
“As it so happens, I’ve loved and lost.”  
“A woman?”  
“Of a sort.”  
She shook her head. “I don’t do gentleman-on-lady vengeance. Not in my modus operandi. My services are strictly for wronged women.”  
“That’s a pity,” Spike said. “Because I could make a hell of a wish.”  
“Say, how do you know about vengeance demons, anyway? Did some ex-lover curse you? It would explain that haircut.”  
“What? No. I’m…” Spike shook his head, snapping his face briefly into its true vampiric form.  
The woman took a step back. “I see. I’d think you’d be more than capable of exacting your own vengeance.”  
“I have no interest in harming the lady who left me. The individual I want to destroy is an old acquaintance of mine. And while I’m certain I could defeat him in a fight, I don’t happen to know where he is at the moment. But, as I understand it, vengeance demons are hampered by no such concerns of location.”  
“You understand correctly. I’m Anyanka, by the way.” She offered him her hand, and he debated whether to kiss or shake it.  
“Spike.” He went with shaking. The last thing he wanted was for this Anyanka to misinterpret his intentions.  
“Oh! William the Bloody? That Spike?”  
“Right on.”  
“It’s an honor. You’ve achieved some very impressive things in the way of mayhem. My boss has had us demons study your work.”  
“That is a compliment. I’m flattered. And if you’ve heard of me, you’ve doubtless heard of the fellow I want to kill. One Angelus.”  
Anyanka, to Spike’s great surprise, burst out laughing. “You want to destroy Angel? Have you really not heard?”  
“Heard what?” Spike asked, bemused.  
“Your old pal’s firmly one of the noble fighters now. It’s sad, really. Such a waste of all that wonderful demonic creativity.”  
“Angelus has gone good? You don’t mean that!”  
“It’s true. Some upstart witch cursed him with a soul. Now he’s tortured instead of torturing.”  
“Well.” Spike smiled. “Some might think that defeating a toothless enemy wouldn’t be all that rewarding, but I’d have to disagree. In fact, I’m rather looking forward to it.”  
“You’re in luck, too. He’s at the Hellmouth in Sunnydale. California, you know. Go west, young man!”  
“Sunnydale, eh? I was there myself, not that far back. Come to think of it, that was the last time I saw Angelus. What a laugh if he’s been there all this time!”  
“We’ll need train passage, of course.”  
“We?”  
“Oh, I’m coming with you, of course. Spike against Angel? It’ll be the fight of the century! I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”  
“Very well.” Spike smiled. “We’re Hellmouth bound.”


	4. Where Angel Fears to Tread

Sunnydale, California  
September 1914

The California sun was particularly brutal after months in the cool Swiss mountains, and Buffy, not for the first time, wished that it wasn’t deemed strictly necessary for young ladies to wear quite so much clothing. But throwing her shirtwaist into the air would probably have provoked an eyebrow raise or two from the other attendees at Cordelia Chase’s garden party, so Buffy simply helped herself to more lemonade.  
In any case, as dull as the party was, it provided a welcome respite from Buffy’s recent activities. She had been home for two weeks now, and it felt as though every second of that time had been spent listening to Mr. Giles, looking after her little sister, or killing vampires.   
According to Giles, Sunnydale was a Hellmouth, making it exponentially more likely to attract demons. (Which might have explained some of the other guests at this party, Buffy reflected.) Hopefully, he’d said, once word got out about the presence of the Slayer, all but the most powerful would be scared off.  
“That doesn’t help much, though,” Buffy had said. “Aren’t the powerful ones the ones I’ve got to worry about?”  
“Well, yes. But, with a strict training schedule, I’m confident we can get you to a place where you’ll be strong enough to handle them.”  
And he hadn’t been lying about the strictness of the schedule, either. Buffy had punched, kicked, snapped, and staked her way through nearly a dozen of the mannequins Giles had brought with him. He’d sent away for more, but until they arrived, Buffy had persuaded him to let her save the dismemberments for evening, and let her have a bit of social life during the day.  
But this garden party could hardly be described as lively. Cordelia Chase had seemed friendly enough when she’d come by Buffy’s home to extend the invitation earlier that week, but none of the other young ladies present seemed at all interested in talking to the new girl.  
“So, Buffy,” Cordelia said, leaning over from her wicker chair, “how does our little town compare to boarding school in Belgium?”  
“Switzerland.”  
“Whatever.”  
“It’s, erm, very different,” Buffy said cautiously. “For one thing, there’s a good deal more men.”  
Cordelia smiled. “Oh, yes. Though, honestly, the caliber of the society here is hardly anything to be proud of. A few of these interminable parties is enough to make one want to take the next boat to Paris!”  
“Have you been to Paris?”  
“Oh, yes. My mother took me for my eighteenth birthday last year. It was splendid. I underwent what can only be described as a fashion rebirth. Oh, if I could only go back!”  
“I’m sure it must have been lovely,” said Buffy, “but I scarcely think you’d want to go back now.”  
“What do you mean?”  
“Well, the war.”  
“Oh, yes, that’s why you left Holland, isn’t it?”  
“Switzerland.”  
“Yes, that’s what I meant.”  
“Yes, the school sent us home as soon as the Archduke was killed.”  
“Simply dreadful,” Cordelia sighed. “It’s very inconsiderate of all those rebels to wreck Europe like this. I mean, I ordered new dresses ages ago, and with all this fighting going on, who knows when they’ll come in?”  
“Yes, indeed,” Buffy said absentmindedly. Her eyes had been caught by the appearance of a small, redheaded young woman at the far end of the garden. Cordelia followed her line of sight.   
“Ugh! You’ll have to excuse me. I have no idea what’s she’s doing here.”  
“Who is she?” Buffy asked her departing hostess.  
“Willow Rosenberg. A poor relation. She’s only staying with us until she can find employment as a governess. Practically no better than a servant, so why on earth Mother would have let her into the party, I don’t know…”  
As Cordelia’s voice trailed off, Buffy stood up herself. She’d spent enough time sitting still for one day. Time to go looking for trouble.  
She turned around, and very nearly collided with a large, dark-haired young man.  
“Oh! Pardon me, miss...Buffy?”  
She looked up at his face, scanning the features for some hint of familiarity. “Oh my heavens! Xander Harris!”  
“Yes! I’d heard you were back in town, but I certainly didn’t expect to run into you here, at Miss Chase’s fancy to-do.”  
“Well, I certainly wouldn’t have expected you to be here. What on earth are you doing at this hen party?”  
“I, um, I work here.”  
“Pardon me?” Buffy raised her eyebrows delicately.  
“Yes. I don’t think you’d remember, seeing as the last time we saw each other we were just children, and all that, but, yes, I’m not quite, well, in the same class as you and Cordelia. But Willow--Miss Rosenberg, her cousin, you know--got me a job here. As the gardener.”  
Buffy looked her old friend up and down. Indeed, he was wearing dirtied work clothes, there were calluses on his hands, and his face had been tanned with the summer sun. Xander Harris, whom she’d played with every afternoon until she left for boarding school at twelve, had grown up to be a manual laborer. It was--awkward, to say the least. Or, Buffy reflected, it didn’t have to be. Why on earth should she let a little thing like money get in the way of a perfectly good friendship? This was the twentieth century, after all! If humans could fly across the sky, why couldn’t they be friends with people poorer than they were?  
“Well,” Buffy said, “you’ll have to tell me all about what it’s like to work for Cordelia! It was awfully kind of her cousin to get you the position.”  
“Yes. That’s Willow for you, though. Always helping people out. You’d like her. She and your sister get along awfully well.”  
“That’s no very convincing recommendation,” Buffy said dryly. “You may remember how extremely annoying I find my little sister.”  
“Oh, she’s not so bad,” Xander said, shaking his head. “You’re just biased.”  
“Anyway, come and take a walk with me around the garden! I want to see all of your floral handiwork.”  
“I’d be happy to show you around, Buffy, but I’m not supposed to fraternize with the party guests, according to Cordelia. Maybe another time?”  
“Of course! And you simply must come to tea at the house one of these days. We have so much to talk about.”  
“I’ll be sure to,” Xander said, and, with a wave of his hand, disappeared back into the hedges.   
Buffy stood, hands on hips, and looked into the distance. Perhaps Sunnydale wasn’t quite so devoid of friendly faces, after all.

***

“I saw Xander Harris the other day,” Buffy said to her mother, to break the silence in their sitting room.  
“Oh, did you really, dear? Such a nice young fellow. A pity about the job, of course, but really a very good friend for you. I take it you saw him at Cordelia Chase’s party?”  
“Yes.”  
“And what did you think of her?”  
“I’m certain we’ll be great friends,” said Buffy, even though she wasn’t.  
“Excellent.” Mrs. Summers looked up as the clock chimed three. “Oh, Buffy darling, would you mind running over to Cordelia’s now and fetching Dawn? That nice young Willow Rosenberg has been helping her with mathematics.”  
“Of course,” Buffy said, keeping the resentment from her voice. Just barely back from Switzerland, and already she was running errands again, carting Dawn to and fro.   
But she was determined to be a good daughter, so she went.  
As she walked, she reflected on how oppressive the sitting room had seemed. She had always been able to talk freely to her mother, always told her everything on her mind--but this new development in her life, this responsibility of being the Slayer, had to be kept from her, and it left such pregnant gaps in their conversation that Buffy found herself wanting to be away from her mother, if only to reduce the chances that she’d blurt out everything.  
Giles had made it perfectly clear that she was to tell no one about her secret identity, and there were to be no exceptions. “Of course,” he’d said, “some people will already know. The Hellmouth has a fair number of witches, too, and others who, like me, have made a life study of your legacy. But be guarded around ordinary humans.”  
“Why?” Buffy asked flippantly. “I’m fairly certain I can handle ordinary humans.”  
“I’m not speaking of you fighting people,” Giles said, sighing. “But it would be rather inconvenient for humanity to devolve into mass panic because you couldn’t keep your mouth shut.”  
“Point taken,” Buffy said, pouting. “There’s no need to scold.”  
“With you,” Giles had concluded, removing his glasses, “it seems there will often be a need to scold.”  
But as annoying and preachy as Giles could be, at least she didn’t have to hide herself from him. It was strange that this man she’d only just met could know so much more about her than her own mother. “Not as strange as vampires, though,” Buffy said aloud, mostly to herself.  
“Oh, come on now,” a voice from behind her purred. “That hurts my feelings.”  
Buffy whipped her head around and drove a roundhouse kick firmly into her follower’s chest. Fumbling in her pocket for the stake Giles had insisted she keep there, she stopped him in his attempt to stand up with a swift elbow to his chin, then drove her stake into his exposed chest. He collapsed into dust, and she slumped over, panting.  
“Tired already?” another voice asked, and Buffy whirled around again--but saw no one.  
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry,” the unseen man continued. “I’m not about to attack you, Slayer. Although, if you’re breathing so heavily after only one vampire, I almost think I might be able to take you.”  
“Show yourself!” Buffy snapped, gripping her stake tightly, her knuckles white with tension.   
“Not with you in that mood,” the voice laughed. “Besides, I prefer to remain in the shade.”  
“You are a vampire, then?” Buffy asked.  
“In a sense.”  
“I don’t know what you mean by that. Either you’re a vampire or not. There’s not a lot of in-between.”  
“You’d be surprised.”  
“Do you think you’re funny, or something? Because I’m not laughing.”  
“I can see that. It’s a pity. You’re much prettier when you smile.”  
“Tell me who you are and what you want,” Buffy said, gritting her teeth, “or we’ll see how much of a vampire you really are when my stake hits your chest.”  
“I’m a friend. Willow knows me. You can ask her. As for what I want...believe me, if I knew that, I wouldn’t be lurking around talking to you.”  
“Do you have a name? I can’t very well march up to Miss Rosenberg and say, ‘Oh, this mysterious voice was chatting to me earlier, he said he knew you, have any idea whom it might be?’”  
“You can call me Angel,” the voice said, in what might have been either a laugh or a sob.   
“Oh, honestly?” Buffy asked. “Angel? Are you supposed to be my guardian or something? Or a dark prince? Should I just cut right to the chase and call you Lucifer? I say, are you even listening to me? Hello? Hello?”  
But Angel had apparently gone.


	5. Great Ex-Spike-tations

Denver, Colorado  
September 1914

“What do you mean, there isn’t another train for three hours? I’m not going to wait three hours for a bloody train!”   
“I’m very sorry, sir,” the clerk said nervously, “but Sunnydale isn’t a very popular destination with most people.”  
“Well, yeah,” Spike muttered under his breath, “but I’m not most people.” He allowed himself a small grin, and briefly entertained the thought of biting the clerk out of spite. But Anyanka was waiting behind him, tapping her foot, and Spike contented himself with snarling. “Very well then,” he said, “we’ll take two tickets for the twelve-bloody-thirty.”  
“Yes, sir.”  
Spike took the tickets and turned back to his companion. “I can’t believe this,” he said, following her over to the benches. “I’m not made to stew and wait! Bad enough that I’ve been sitting inside trains all week. Now, for an extra-enjoyable change of pace, I get to sit outside a train. So very fucking thrilling.”  
“It’s not that bad,” Anyanka said evenly. “At least there’s a chance to eat something. I’m starving.”  
“Yeah, me too,” Spike admitted. “Truth be told, that clod of a clerk looked rather tasty.”  
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” Anyanka chided him. “You can do much better than some mousy, rail-thin pencil-pusher. What about her?” She gestured to a buxom, ruddy middle-aged woman.  
Spike made a face. “I appreciate the thought, but she’s too old for me. I hate drinking from wrinkly necks. The skin folds get all stuck in your fangs and it takes hours to get it all out with a toothpick later.”  
“That was more information than I needed to know.”  
“Sorry.”  
“I’m going to go get some less disturbing food. I’ll meet you back here in time for the train.”  
“Fine by me.”   
Spike looked around the station again, trying to spot someone appealing. He wasn’t particularly inclined towards any sort of artistry today--not like Angelus would have been--so he ruled out anyone who looked like they might put up a decent fight. “Just a quick snack, then,” he whispered to himself, “something to tide me over till the Hellmouth.”  
He flicked his eyes over a mother with her young child (call him soft-hearted, but he couldn’t separate that, bitter though he might be about that particular filial bond), a bearded man in working clothes (he probably smelled of sweat, and anyway could very possibly be strong enough to cause Spike a bit of trouble), and several more nondescript travellers before lighting upon the perfect target. A young man, smiling with all the brash confidence of youth, was walking arm in arm with a blushing girl of eighteen or twenty. They were clearly sweethearts: whispering in each other’s ears, looking in each other’s eyes, smiling in lovestruck symbiosis.  
Spike hated it. Fucking hell, why should they get happiness, why should these petty little beings be so joyfully in love when he was in such pain? Their every move was salt in his freshly wounded heart. It wasn’t like he had forgotten Drusilla, but with the goal of the Hellmouth he at least had found something to distract him, to occupy his thoughts. Seeing these two forced him to remember the ugly scene in New York, dragged his grief to the front of his mind.  
So it was settled, then; he would kill them. Or… He pondered his options for a moment before striking. Kill the girl, but let the boy live? Or the other way around? Or ought he to sire one of them? (He couldn’t do them both, obviously. Then they’d only earn eternal happiness, which was the exact opposite of what he was aiming for.) But, as a matter of fact, who even cared? He’d decide what to do in the heat of the moment. Fuck careful planning. This was how he worked best: improvisation.  
He sidled over to the couple, barely managing to keep the anticipatory glee off his face. “Erm, hello?” he asked, in his poshest accent. “I’m dreadfully lost, and I was wondering if you could just point me in the right direction. I’m looking for…” He scanned the station for a sign. “Charles Street.”  
“Oh yes, of course,” the young man said. “It’s right this way. Here, I’ll show you.”  
Spike followed them out of the main vestibule and into a darkened hallway.  
“We’re almost there,” the girl said, after they had walked a few paces.  
“Oh, it’s quite all right,” Spike purred. “I think you’ve taken me far enough.” As the couple turned around, he smiled widely, revealing his true face, and grabbed hold of the girl in order to take a bite. He’d kill her first and then decide what to do with the boy. It wasn’t like he was in any particular hurry--but just as he swept the hair off the tender neck and prepared to feed, he was hit on his side by some enormous force and thrown harshly to the ground.  
“What the bloody hell?..” he murmured, and, pulling himself quickly onto his feet again, looked into the eyes of the bearded laborer from the vestibule.  
Spike snarled and turned to attack the newcomer, but was jolted back into a cower at the cross he was brandishing.  
“Back off, vampire,” Whiskers (it had become a habit of Spike’s, in the face of a threat, to assign it some properly unintimidating name) said in a growl almost as venom-filled as Spike’s own. “You don’t know who you’re dealing with.”  
“Well,” drawled Spike in as calm a tone as he could manage, keeping one eye on the cross and another on Whiskers’ pocket, from which a suspiciously stake-shaped bulge was protruding, “certainly not anyone of breeding. If you’d had a proper education, you’d know both that it’s dreadfully impolite to point one of those”--he indicated the cross--”at one of me, and that the correct pronoun in that sentence would have been ‘whom.’”  
“Wonderful,” Whiskers said, shaking the cross haphazardly. “A Limey bloodsucker.”  
“I prefer ‘creature of the night,’ myself,” Spike replied, edging carefully along the wall. “And don’t hold my motherland against me.”  
“Listen, scum, you came to the wrong town. I’ve made huntin’ your kind my life’s work, and damned if I’ll let you go around terrorizin’ good people.”  
“Oh, really?” Spike asked skeptically. “Your life’s work? Because I’ve dealt with some top-notch demon-slayers in my time--even a Slayer, capital-S--and not one of them held a cross at an angle that made it so easy for me to do--” He moved quickly, whipping a knee up towards Whiskers’ groin, then snapping his other leg up and around in a kick that knocked the cross to the far side of the hallway--”that.”  
Whiskers was doubled over, clutching his middle, and Spike marched over and grabbed him by the scruff of the neck. “Now listen,” he spat, “you happen to be in luck, because I don’t happen to like hair in my food. And don’t go telling me I picked the wrong town, because I didn’t pick this bloody town. I’m only passing through, all right? And you can forget about following me, because next time I see you, I might just be hungry enough to forego the niceties of my palate. Or maybe I’ll give you a little pre-dinner shave. So don’t you go forgetting who I am, all right? I’m William the Fucking Bloody, and if you think you’ve got the balls to tangle with me, I suggest doing a little research before you come knocking. Now get out of here and leave me to my meal in peace!” He released Whiskers with a contemptuous shove, turning his back on the skittering of his nails on the floor as he dragged himself up and ran away.  
The boy and girl were still huddled in a corner of the hallway, staring up at him with pure fright in their eyes. Spike grinned.  
“Now that’s what I like to see,” he said cheerfully. “That’s the proper spirit of respect. Bloody Americans. You haven’t got any idea of class.”  
He bent over and bodily hauled them to their feet, one in each hand. “Oh, and you’re incredibly fucking stupid, you know that? You had all that time to run, or have one last grand shag. And what did you do? Sat and watched like you were at the bloody theater. Oh well, Darwin and all that, you’re just too stupid to live.”  
It was a deeply satisfying meal.


	6. The Wind and the Willow

Sunnydale, California  
September 1914

The Chase mansion was no less impressive today than it had been the day of the garden party, and although Buffy was no stranger to grand homes (she’d spent Christmas in one or another of her school friends’ Swiss chateaux for the past several years), she nevertheless felt a sting of apprehension upon knocking at the door. One would have thought, she reflected wryly, that learning that she had supernatural fighting powers would have increased her social self-confidence, but it had done just the opposite. Everything seemed new and strange, even the things that weren’t.   
“Buffy!” Xander Harris was shouting at her from across the lawn, waving a pair of gardening shears in his hand. Buffy waved back, and smiled--Xander was the same, at least, as she remembered him, loud and clumsy and kind.  
And he’d said good things about this Willow Rosenberg, so she had to be agreeable, right?  
One could only hope.  
The door swung open, and Buffy was face-to-face with the short redheaded girl she’d seen at Cordelia’s garden party. “Willow Rosenberg?”  
The other girl smiled. “That’s me. And you’re Buffy Summers, correct?”  
“The one and only.”  
Willow giggled. “Well, come in, won’t you? Dawn’s waiting in the study.”  
“Actually,” Buffy said quickly, “before I get Dawn, I had something I wanted to ask you about. Privately, if it’s at all possible.”  
Willow blinked rapidly. “Oh, certainly! The sitting-room’s empty, I think. Right this way.”  
Buffy followed Willow down the corridor and into what seemed to be the shabbiest room in the grand house. It surprised her at first, but then, on further reflection, if this was where the “poor relation” was allowed to receive visitors, it was unlikely to have been very well kept-up.  
“Now,” Willow said, closing the door behind them and sitting next to Buffy on the sofa, “what did you want to ask me about? I assume it has something to do with you being the Slayer.”  
Buffy was taken aback.  
“Well, yes. How did you--?”  
“Know? Well, I’m a witch, you see. Rather a good one, too. And you’ve got all these mystical energy type things coming off you. Like a shiny supernatural lamppost.”  
“Thank you,” Buffy said. “I think.”  
“And besides,” Willow continued, “Giles told me you were coming.”  
“You know Giles?”  
“Before he got chosen to be a Watcher, he used to live here and deal with various Hellmouth-induced creepy-crawlies. We’ve worked together a few times. You get to know the other magic users in a town like this.”  
“Other magic users? Like Angel?”  
It was Willow’s turn to be taken aback. “Angel’s not a magic user. Not really. But how did you come to hear that name?”  
“From the man--or, thing--himself. We had a little chat on the way here. He said you two were friends.”  
“I don’t know if ‘friends’ is the term I’d use,” Willow said, frowning. “I certainly know him. And he’s not an enemy.”  
“But he is a vampire?”  
“Yes. But, well--”  
“Not an ordinary vampire?”  
“You’re quick,” Willow said approvingly.  
“Not really. He told me so himself.”  
“Did he tell you how, exactly, he’s different?”  
“No. That’s what I was hoping you could clarify for me.”  
“Angel--Angelus--used to be a full-on, evil, growly vampire. One with a particular penchant for torture. But, a few years ago, he changed. He, um, he was given a soul.”  
“How?”  
“Me.”  
“Why?” Buffy knew the single-word questions weren’t polite, but she was brimming over with curiosity. This tiny, cheerful girl, not more than three years Buffy’s senior, had changed a monster into--into something apparently less monstrous. It would have been unbelievable, if Buffy hadn’t seen enough unbelievable things these last few months.  
“It was a curse. Revenge. He killed--” Willow’s voice broke--“He killed my lover.”  
“Oh, my,” Buffy said, stupidly, and put a hand on Willow’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”  
“I wanted him to feel pain for what he’d done. Feel the sorrow that I was feeling. So I--oh, I’d never been so struck with agony as I was then. And I’d never been so full of power. It was like I had been holding myself back for years, like I’d never truly done magic before. And I wanted his heart to ache, so I gave him a soul.”  
Willow paused and took in a shuddering breath. “It soon became clear that Angel could barely survive on his own; he’d killed so many people, was wracked with so much guilt. And he was my responsibility, in a way, since I’d made him what he was. So he and I work together now, in atonement, to keep the Hellmouth safe.  
“And,” she added, almost as an afterthought, “I vowed not to harm with magic again. In her memory.”  
“Whose?”  
“Tara’s. My, my lover. The one Angel killed.”  
“Oh,” said Buffy, and then, “Oh.” She’d heard of such things before, in whispers behind closed doors, of women who loved other women, of girls who swore they would not touch men. But never had she heard anyone so brazenly admit to Lesbianism.   
“So,” Willow said with studied briskness, “that’s how I know Angel.”  
“Can I trust him?”  
“As far as you can trust anyone in this town.”

***

Dawn trotted behind Buffy on their walk home, eagerly babbling about the things she and Willow were studying, and how she was certain to be top of the class in mathematics.   
“I was already first in French, you know, and spelling, but this one boy was ahead of me in algebra and now I think I’ve really got the hang of it. We’re to have a new teacher, you know, come Monday.”  
“Oh?” Buffy asked, her mind focused on scanning the area for vampires. The last thing she needed was her younger sister being harmed; or, worse, discovering who Buffy was.  
“Do you miss Switzerland?” Dawn asked suddenly, tugging on Buffy’s hand. “You don’t seem very happy here.”  
“I--well, I do miss school, and my friends there, I suppose,” Buffy said carefully. “But don’t think I’m not happy here. It’s lovely to be with you and Mother again, really.”  
“And Willow can be your friend! Can’t she?”  
“I don’t see why not,” Buffy said, smiling. “She certainly must be patient, to put up with you so well.”  
Dawn smacked her on the arm. “That’s quite rude!”  
“Is it?” Buffy asked, smacking her back. “Is it?”  
The two began to tussle as they had when they were young, though Buffy was careful not to use all her new strength. She had just wrestled Dawn into a headlock when she caught a glimpse of a figure moving quickly through the trees. Vampire? Angel? She abruptly let Dawn go.  
“What, you’ve had enough?”  
“Never mind that now, Dawnie. You’re much too old for this anyway.”  
“Goodness,” Dawn said, rolling her eyes, “you’ve certainly become stuck-up while you were away.”  
“Not stuck-up. Just grown-up.”  
“Same thing.”  
“Come on, let’s hurry home. We don’t want Mother to worry.”  
She shepherded Dawn through what remained of their journey, and, letting her go at the front door of the house, surreptitiously rushed back to the spot she’d seen the figure.  
Giles had been teaching her about tracking, and other outdoor skills, but Buffy was still far from an expert. She squinted, bewildered, at broken branches and fallen leaves, wondering what was a sign of a traveller and what the result of the wind.   
Buffy was about ready to give up when her newly enhanced hearing caught the faintest whisper of a rustle in the trees. She crouched down, taking care not to let the hem of her dress touch the dirt, and gripped the stake in her pocket, alert.  
The rustle died away, and Buffy waited for a moment to see if it would return. But instead of the crackle of leaves, the next whisper she heard was a voice, directly in her ear.  
“Hello, Slayer.”  
Buffy whipped around, stake in hand, ready for a fight; instead, she saw a young man’s smiling face. He had a shifty sort of smile, and a strange glint in his eye, but she heard his heartbeat, its pounding belying his calm appearance, and knew he was human.  
That didn’t mean he was trustworthy. “Who are you?” she asked, switching the tension in her body from her hand to her foot: she’d rather injure than kill a human, given the choice. “And how do you know who I am?”  
“Lucky guess, maybe?”  
“I don’t think so. Name. Now. Or I show you how I earned my title.”  
“If I understand correctly,” the young man said, his voice amused, “you don’t so much earn it as have it dropped upon you with no warning.”  
“Your point being?”  
“Well, you didn’t quite ask for this, did you?”  
“Did you ask to be raised with such an utter lack of manners? Your name, please!”  
“And it’s a lot of responsibility, isn’t it? So many people, depending on you for their safety?”  
“So far,” Buffy said dryly, “I haven’t failed them.”  
“Oh, but you will. Someday soon, you will. And you’ll feel this horrible sort of entirely undeserved guilt. It happens to all the Slayers, sooner or later. If they live long enough.”  
“I don’t very much like your tone,” Buffy said, struggling to maintain the appearance of calm. “I’d like you to tell me who you are, and then leave.”  
“You wouldn’t know who I am.”  
“My Watcher would.”  
“Oh, your Watcher. The ever-knowing Rupert Giles. Yes, he could tell you about me. But I doubt he’d want to.”  
“Why not?”  
“He has a past he’d rather you not learn about, I fancy.”  
Buffy frowned. Giles, with a scandalous past? It seemed impossible. (Although, so had vampires.)   
“Regardless. Your name.”  
“My name is unimportant. I am a pawn, a piece in a game, a servant of my master, the tool that does his bidding. I have come only to warn you: if you continue as you are, you will come to regret it.”  
“An awfully vague warning.”  
“It is what I was told to say,” the pawn replied, and, before she could question him further, disappeared into the forest.  
“So,” Buffy said aloud, to no one in particular, “someone doesn’t like me. What a lovely surprise.”


	7. Dru the Obscure

Sunnydale, California  
September 1914

“Cigar?”  
“No thank you,” Anyanka said, wrinkling her nose. “I had a rather bad experience several hundred years back.”  
“Oh, come on, now, we’re celebrating! Finally at the Hellmouth!” Spike shook the tin at her vigorously.  
“I maintain my denial.”  
“Well, all right then, bloody bad sport you are. But the question is, now we’re here, what are we going to do?”  
They were sitting in an abandoned factory not far from the train station, waiting for sunset and swapping gruesome stories. But Spike was growing impatient. He’d been in Sunnydale for nearly two hours now and still hadn’t started his search for Dru properly. Why, she and Angelus could be together this very minute, and he was wasting his time chatting with a vengeance demon.  
“I say, you can do magic, right?”  
Anyanka blinked in surprise. “Of course I can! As a matter of fact, it’s a very interesting story…”  
“Yes, very well, don’t care,” Spike said quickly. “Can you do a location spell? For Dru?”  
“I was going to go find a nice pub and find someone to curse, but I suppose that can wait.”  
The location spell revealed Drusilla was hiding out in the forest. Spike wasn’t terribly familiar with this Hellmouth--he’d been here only once before--but he jotted down on a slip of paper what the nearest landmarks were, and shoved it in his trouser pocket.  
“Thanks, Anyanka, you’re a chum. I’ll see you around.”  
“What do you mean?”  
“Well, I’m going to go find Dru, yes? So I’ll probably, you know, stay where she’s staying. And I might not see you for a bit. So, ’bye.”  
“If you think I’m not coming along, you’re as cracked as your girlfriend’s reputed to be,” Anyanka said flatly. “Vengeance demon, remember? And I specialize in affairs of the heart, as it were. You’re about to reunite with the woman who spurned you. I see great possibilities for vicarious entertainment.”  
“Oh, you are not coming with me! Don’t want anyone around but me and Dru when I see her again. That’s the way it was and the way it should be.”  
“Did I not just find her for you? I think you rather owe me one.”  
“Bloody hell,” Spike muttered under his breath. “All right, let’s go. Sun’s close enough to down. I can make do.”

***

The problem, Spike reflected, with being a creature of the night, was that it didn’t exactly come with the vision enhancements to match.  
“Ought to have eaten more carrots, back when I was a human,” he said to himself.  
“What’s that?” While Spike was taking care to step as lightly as possible--he didn’t want to scare Dru off, for it seemed like she might need a bit of coaxing before she fell back into his arms--Anyanka apparently had no such concerns, and her strident voice cutting across the silence of the forest made him wince.  
“Nothing. Just thinkin’, that’s all.”  
“This is getting rather dull,” Anyanka continued in the same unmodulated tones. “Not a glimpse of anyone anywhere.”  
“Well,” said Spike, running his fingers through his hair in frustration, “I figure we’re looking for a cave or something, right? ‘Cause when you did the spell it was still lightish out, and she’d have to be under some sort of covering.”  
“Like that sort of covering?” Anyanka asked, pointing to a hollowed-out tree a few yards off.  
“Not quite. It’d have to be a bit bigger, see? Not that Dru’s big. She’s a nice size. Perfect, in fact.”  
“Spare me. I like the looks of that tree, though,” Anyanka continued, approaching it and rubbing her hands along the bark. “Oh! What’s this here?”  
“What?”  
“Some sort of knot, almost like a button…”  
“Well, press it!”  
“All right, don’t get all snippy about it.”  
Pressing the button widened the opening in the tree, enough that Spike could see gnarled wooden stairs leading down inside. “Huh,” he said aloud. “Interesting.”  
“I’ll say! Come on, let’s go!”  
“Yes, fine, but I’m going first.”  
“Why? Worried I’ll get hurt? I appreciate the gentlemanly sentiment, but you should remember I’m a demon, and I can--”  
“Take care of yourself, yes, I know that perfectly well,” Spike interrupted, lowering himself down into the stairway. “No, I just want to go first. Nothing personal.”  
As he continued down the stairs, he heard a voice floating up from inside the tree. “Oh, my darling, my boy, come here. I’m going to give you such a lovely gift today. Such a lovely gift for the boy, yes.”  
Spike’s heart figuratively stopped. He’d know that voice anywhere: on the seas, in the air, even underground. Drusilla was here.  
And she was calling to him, he thought wildly, must have seen that he was coming, must be preparing for him now, must be missing him, ready for him, wanting him...He clambered down the rest of the way as quickly as he could, barely noticing when a stray branch nicked his arm and spilled blood.  
He saw her face first, as he emerged into the cavernous room, her beautiful face, eyes gazing aimlessly towards the ceiling, mouth curved upwards in a deceptively innocent smile. And she was naked, lying on the bed, arms spread open, legs crossed in the faux-demure fashion he loved to ravage.  
“Dru,” Spike said, barely keeping his voice steady. “Dru, love, it’s me. I’m here. I’ve come for you.”  
“Spike?”  
Her tone was not the rapturous one he had hoped for.  
“Yes, Spike. You may remember me.”  
“Why are you here, my boy?”  
“Were you not...were you not expecting me?”  
“Certainly not.”  
“But you’re…” His voice trailed off as another figure entered the room.  
“Oh, bloody hell,” Spike grumbled. It wasn’t Angelus, thankfully, but some vampire he didn’t know. He smelt of blood, still. Newly killed. “Dru,” he said, exasperated, “did you turn some pretty young man?”  
“It’s what I do, Spike,” she said, smiling. “You remember.”  
“Yes, well, I also remember that I love you, so if you’ll leave this pup be, we can be off together, yes?”  
“Who are you?” the other vampire interrupted.  
“I’m William the Sodding Bloody!” Spike exclaimed. “Oh, for hell’s sake, haven’t you heard of me? I killed a bleeding Slayer!”  
“Oh, yes, now that you say your name, you do sound familiar.”  
“I should jolly well think so! Now, can you please fucking scram before I stake you?”  
“Why should I?”  
“Because it looks very much as though you were about to fuck my Dru, and I don’t like people doing that.”  
“Your Dru?” The young vampire laughed, and Spike clenched his teeth together. “She chose me. Changed me. I think she’s my Dru now.”  
“Oh, piss off,” Spike said, rolling his eyes, and kicked him in the balls.  
While Dru’s paramour was bent over, shaking, Spike strode over to the bed and broke off one of the posts, snarling at the still-naked Dru with his newly vamped face. He walked up to the other vampire and staked him matter-of-factly in the heart.  
“All right, now,” he said, turning to Drusilla. “He’s dust. Can we go back to normal now?”  
But she recoiled from his advance. “I don’t think so, Spike.”  
“Oh, come off it, Dru! You know I love you. I just killed for you! I’ve done it before, I’ll do it again, you’re my mother and my lover and my all. I’m sorry we fought, all right? I forgive you. Not very bloody, I know, but love makes even a still heart act like it’s beatin’. You know what I mean, don’t you?”  
“I know,” Drusilla said, her strange smile playing around her lips. “I always know what you mean.”  
“Good. So we’re all right, then?”  
“No. No, that’s done for now, my William. I can’t have you killing my playthings. It isn’t very kind of you.”  
“Since when did you give a rat’s arse about kindness?”  
But she just blinked her wide, strange eyes at him and floated up the stairs and away into the night.  
Spike stared after her, dumbfounded, uncomprehending. He knew it would be no use to chase her. If Dru didn’t want him, nothing in the world could make her change her mind.  
“So that’s it, then,” he said, numbly, to himself. “That’s Dru gone.”  
“I am sorry,” a voice said, and he turned around to see the forgotten Anyanka in the corner. “You know, I don’t usually do this kind of thing, but if you like, I could curse her for you. Anything you like. Just make a wish.”  
Spike shook his head slowly. “No, thank you. I don’t think so.”  
“Are you certain? I can put her in a world of pain. She’ll rue the day she left you.”  
“No, damn it!” Spike said, ramming his foot angrily into the wall of the cavern. “She’s an insane bitch, but I still love her, fool that I am, and her pain would bring me no pleasure. That’s how it is, you know. With love.”  
Anyanka raised her eyebrows. “My past experience would seem to indicate the contrary.”  
Spike shrugged. “Oh, that’s not real love, those affairs you avenge. That’s lust, passion, desire. Turns to hate in the blink of an eye. No, I understand love, though I haven’t got the soul to enjoy it. It’s a good deal more bloody painful than the false thing, and it means you’d rather tear your own heart out than see her suffer a moment’s pain. Idiotic, but there you have it.”  
And he, too, turned his back and left the cave, wondering where he might go from here.


End file.
